


Tears Will Fall, They Always Will

by ZaneAmami



Category: Danganronpa, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Angst, Death, Depression, Funeral, Implied Car Crash, M/M, Misery, Ouma’s dead lol, Ouma’s diary, Saihara’s depressed about it, coffin, implied smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:42:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26506906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZaneAmami/pseuds/ZaneAmami
Summary: This is basically Saiouma except Ouma dies without ever confessing his love. Saihara finds out via his dairy Ouma willed to Saihara.
Relationships: Oma Kokichi & Saihara Shuichi, Oma Kokichi/Saihara Shuichi
Comments: 7
Kudos: 44





	Tears Will Fall, They Always Will

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically Saiouma except Ouma dies without ever confessing his love. Saihara finds out via his dairy Ouma willed to Saihara.

Saihara leaned over the coffin, looking dejected over the half covered body inside. His expression solemn, and unchanging, tears gently rolling down his cheeks like droplets of condensation on the mirror after a hot shower. And just like that mirror, his eyes were foggy, left partially unable to see through the emotion clouding his eyes. A hiccup tore it’s way out of his chest, finally a noise out of all this silence, and began sobbing. How unfair. The weather was too clear, too sunny. The chirps of birds pierced the air, the occasional rustle of squirrels in the trees. It [mocked] him. Taunting him to scream out all the sad that had haunted his life since he was just eleven years old. Scream out that the friend who made him cry most of that sorrow out was gone for good, and the world was to blame. The planet had a god damned voice, and it had been screaming angry and hateful words at him since the day he was born. If there was a God, it tore every section of his life to shreds, and [laughed] about it. Ouma found him and covered his ears so he didn’t have to hear it, he glued the pieces back together with his smiles, tricks, and hugs . . . Saihara had almost gotten used to not having to teach himself to cry so silently. Why was he gone? Why now?

If a God existed, he wanted nothing to do with it. He would pray Ouma didn’t go to visit that cruel God. 

Ouma laid in a long sleek black coffin, peacefully asleep as if the gut-wrenching pain above him didn’t even exist. As casual as if you could just shake him awake, and he’d whine about not having enough time to rest. Ouma wore a tight black tux, the tie checker boarded purple and black, and his signature scarf stuffed half-in half-out of his pocket. Handsome, even in death. His eye lashes had the same shine of life, and his finger tips still seemed to have traces of liveliness and redness running through them. Though that was mostly props to the Ultimate Embalmer who’d agreed to help with this. Half of Saihara wished he’d look more dead. That way looking down at him wouldn’t give his stupid head the thought of ‘What if he was really alive?’. Even if he were to pop up awake at his own funeral chanting how it was a lie, Saihara knew he couldn’t be angry. He’d hold onto Ouma tighter than his own life, maybe pass out from lack of air, spewing out loving words.

But of course, that wouldn’t happen, and Ouma’s lack of reaction to Saihara’s despair wrecked sobs gave that away.  
Ouma had meant the world and more to him. Saihara was a depressed and anxious mess in middle-school, he didn’t know who he was. His life was a joke that wasn’t even that funny. His dad was dead, and his mother was an actress who’d rather pursue her career at all hours of the day then pay any second of attention to her son. Of course his uncle and aunt cared even to support him, but even they hurt him. They got into periodic fights, and it always reminded Saihara of the way he and his mother would argue about their relationship. He was broken, unmotivated, and bored with life. Nothing was left to do, and he just decided to bury himself in sleep, getting himself off, and unhealthy decisions. Then Ouma walked in, mending his heart and providing him with love he didn’t know existed. Warming every inch that was cold, and making him smile as he let out wracked sobs about his mother and stress issues. A useless and emotionally-demanding guy like Saihara didn’t deserve his light. Granted he wasn’t just some helpless welp, but the only thing he could handle himself in was debate and defending himself against needless criticism. Behind that he was a mess of guilt and insecurity.

He’d shared so many of life’s good moments with him, so many times where they cried, laughed, yelled . . . If Saihara knew he’d die so soon, he would’ve spent all the time he could with him. Every little second of his time, all the text messages asking him if he wanted to ride bikes or play together, he never would’ve ghosted him over the stupid shit that wasn’t his fault. Saihara closed the blinds on the only window left in the world for him, just because he got a sunburn.

A few metallic taps on his shoulder alerted him of somebody behind him. Saihara jumped, turning quickly before realizing it was just Kiibo, his tears slowing for a moment as he wiped them with his sleeve  
”A-Ah, yeah-?”.

Kiibo winced seeing his friend in such a state, but he of course understood his emotions. If only Kiibo could cry as well. The robot held out a leather back notebook  
”Ah- here . . . Ouma-kun’s friends gave me this and told me to pass it onto you. They were going to give it to you directly but I gave myself the liberty to stop them so no . . . Unfortunate things would happen at Ouma’s resting place. They said he wanted you to read it”.

Surprise flitted across his expression seeing it, questioning curiously in a hoarse and tired voice  
”Wh-What is it?”.

Kiibo looked surprised by the other’s inquisitive response  
”Are you not familiar with personal writing portfolios? I thought you of all people--“

Saihara blinked and realized with a voice crack, eyes still puffy and red, yet alert  
”A diary?”

Ouma kept a diary? Him? Why would he keep a diary? He had more self-confidence and stability than anyone he knew. And it’s not like he really needed to document his life. Wait- scratch that, he shouldn’t be questioning it. Ouma willed him his diary, so he wouldn’t dare call it useless, even if he didn’t quite get the point. Everything left of Ouma he’d savor until his last moment. Saihara took it and ran his thumbs over the edges of the pages. It was very old, the pages having yellowed, the leather peeling in several places, some spots where the leather was just gone. But it was so old he was surprised Ouma kept it for so long unless he found it in an already poor condition. 

Saihara curiously opened the front cover catching a glimpse of the first page. Old and faded written in crayon, that looked like child’s hand-writing with little doodles of hell knows what. He could make out grass and a black and purple blob. It was hard to make out, it being so messy and old, but he’d dealt with cases where he’d had to read messy handwriting- given it wasn’t in crayon. In magenta crayon it was scribbled _‘THIS IS NOT A DIEREY’_ and in smaller violet crayon below it _‘dont reed or I well stab u to deth ’_. Well that was one way to keep people away from your stuff as a kid. He must’ve been a kid when he first started writing this. Saihara was interested in his childhood, and there were a lot of pages stacked up in there.

Saihara nodded and finally spoke again, closing it and putting it under his arm  
”Th-Thank you . . . I’ll try to read it when I get the chance”.

That chance was his highest priority now. Of course he’d read it. All the secrets and things Ouma refused to tell a soul was left on those pages. And it wasn’t like he was invading privacy, Ouma willed it to him. He cared enough to will his diary too him . . . Saihara didn’t deserve that.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The rest of the funeral went as planned. Ouma’s parents arrived late from work very discomfortingly, everyone ate, said their laments and goodbyes, and closed the casket and lowered it into a grave. When they started covering it is when Saihara snapped and broke down, falling to his knees helplessly. Akamatsu and Momota had to pull him up and hold him for awhile before he got his bearings. It really sealed the deal. Ouma was dead, and nothing and no one could do could bring him back. And of course Saihara couldn’t work up the guts to publicly apologize to him before he went underneath. The raven wanted to scream and hit himself for it. That boy deserved better than this. Saihara was sobbing again as he opened the door of his home, one hand tight on Ouma’s diary.

It hadn’t been Ouma’s fault what happened to his uncle, he’d explained before he had very limited control over what DICE decided to do with or without him. They were more like family, not a real functioning organization, though they’d pamper him like a leader to make him feel special. So why . . . Why did he blame Ouma for something his [family] did? This was all Saihara’s fault. If he’d just fucking understood everything before he decided to throw everything they’d done together away. Saihara was the mistake here. Saihara deserved to die, not Ouma. Not [ever] Ouma . . . 

As he went upstairs he took more time then needed getting to the bathroom. His feet slid silently across the wooden panels, the usual creaking lost on the junior detective’s ears. His aunt either didn’t hear him crying or knew he needed space. Saihara shut the bathroom door behind him and set the diary down on the counter leaning over the sink. He just stood there for a solid three minutes, breathing and trying to get a grip on reality. Ouma was really gone . . . Dead. All the happy smiles and tricks were gone. All the bright light in any room he walked into ceased to be. Everything around him seemed dim, dull, and rather meaningless. Saihara was already forgetting his smell, and the way he felt.

Saihara looked at himself in the mirror. He was only a disheveled and sorry excuse of Saihara Shuichi at the moment. His eyes were swollen with tears, cheeks flushed red and sticky, hair sticking out here and there- a total mess. His tie was long forgotten at the entrance of his house and the first two buttons of his shirt were undone. It allowed him to breathe easier at the very least. When did this start? Why did he die? Well, because of Saihara. Maybe he wouldn’t have taken the fall of his death so badly if it hadn’t began with himself.

Saihara glared at his misty eyes in the mirror, gripping the edge of the counter  
”You’re- . . . Just horrible-!” His voice shook, deep with intense hate at his own reflection, growing bleary as tears split over his cheeks “I’m such an idiot- . . . ! I did this! I DID this!”

He let out a wracked sob. Fist tightening at his shoulder. He hunched over trying to gasp for air. Air that suddenly seemed a lot thinner.

Saihara sobbed as he slowly peeled his jacket off and undid the buttons of his top. He threw it to the tile floor, a sharp exhale leaving his lips. The nerves in his body raced up his spine, a tremor running through him against the cold air of the bathroom vent. Hurriedly he pressed his palms to his cheeks and wiped away the salty tears roughly.  
Swipe, swipe, swipe.  
Soon it began to sting, and his clammy hands were rubbing at near-raw irritated skin, eyelids sore with the scraping of his hands. When he finally pulled them away, he looked at his reflection again. The flushed face staring back at him was so red, so hurt. Sniffling he stumbled towards the glass shower, opening the glass door to it. Saihara stepped in, and turned the water on, then closed the door behind him.

And god said; let there be ice.

Saihara yelped and grabbed himself, trying to suck air back into his chest, already worn lungs shocked back to life by the chill. The young man let out a loud crying whine, shivering as he forced himself back under the icy stream of water. His pants and undergarments were soaked, the denim clinging to his legs like wet paper. Saihara squeezed his thighs together, holding both of his frail arms. Letting out a shaky breath, he stepped back against the tile wall, hair sticking to the side of his face. It hurt so much, it was so cold. Icy droplets raced down his frail arms, making him shiver worse. Hot breaths left his lungs, golden orbs tracing the lines in the tile.

Tears sprang up again  
’What am I doing? How did I even get here?’  
It felt like yesterday when he was sitting next to Ouma, grunting in effort just as Saihara popped his marble soda open on a hot summer day. Ouma gawking at his supposed strength, then praising him like he would a dog playfully. Saihara would pretend to be annoyed to make Ouma laugh, but it never bothered him too bad, he’d grown used to it. In fact he enjoyed it a little. Those times were happy. Those times were good. So what the hell happened?

Saihara slammed his fist against the tile ignoring the volts of pain in his hand and throbbing sensation, his voice thundering in the echo of the bathroom   
”What the hell- . . . ?!”

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

[cI]Saihara laid supine on his bed, now dressed in a white t-shirt with a black fibonacci spiral decorating it, a pair of gym shorts on his legs. His hair was still a rats-nest, his eyes still puffy and red with the obligatory purple bags, and and overall exhausted body. He stared at the ceiling, expression almost dead.  
So. What comes next?  
Momota was here. Harumaki was still here. Akamatsu was here. Amami was here. And yet . . . There was a pit of emptiness in his gut at the thought. Bitterly he thought ‘So?’.   
That maybe seemed pretty harsh, but . . . Ouma was gone. A part of the puzzle that was Saihara’s life was missing, and it was gone forever.

Memories bounced around his head. Where did it all begin?

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

”Helloooooo, Earth to Sherlock~! I’m talking to you! Saihara!”

A-AuAHH-! Um- Ouma . . .”.

Saihara was snapped back into reality, and upon glancing down realized the frozen dessert in his hands was melting. He bit off the rest of the crepe while Ouma looked on in amusement. The crepe shop was small, wouldn’t fit anymore than twenty-five people surely if you counted the bar stools. The theme was cyan and pastel pink, so naturally the table was an annoying light color so easy to stain, and the chairs were the sea green color. There was already a drop of chocolate ice cream on the table, as it was. Though he supposed that was his own fault staring off into space like that.

Ouma rolled his eyes dramatically and whined  
”Did you hear anything I said? I just told you my dog died and your totally blanking out!”

Saihara raised a brow and guessed  
”That’s a lie?”

Ouma paused before chiming merrily, wiping his fingers off on a napkin  
”Yup yup! But I [was] talking. Try to dissociate less. You’ve been staring off a whole lot, what’s up with you? Did you get a girlfriend or something?”.

Saihara’s cheeks reddened in embarrassment, wiping off his own hands and getting up  
”N-No, it’s just ah- my uncle is a detective, you know? And ah . . . He recently took a case”.

Ouma gave a weird look as he pulled out his wallet, adorned with that checkerboard pattern he loved so much  
”And that involves you how? It’s his job”.

Saihara narrowed his eyes, hesitant to talk about it. Uncle Nagisa had recently taken up a case on a store robbery, since the guys who did it not only had masks on, but went missing. The problem? His uncle was adamant on chasing these guys down. Uncle Nagisa encountered them once, and that one time they shot him in the shoulder. They had guns on them at all times it seemed. They were dangerous. This wasn’t your standard surprise the killer by showing up at their doorstep stuff. What if they’d been a better shot and got him in the head? He’d be dead. Saihara couldn’t help but be concerned over it, and feel like a coward for not taking the case with him.

Saihara sighed dejectedly and shook his head before admitting  
”It doesn’t. But I’m worried about him”.

Ouma shrugged again, and reasoned as he pulled out three crumpled up five dollar bills from his wallet, trying to flatten them against the table  
”Weeeeeell, nothing you can do to stop him now right? He’ll be fine! Doesn’t he have some special license to do that stuff? That’s means he’s pro!”

”He could still get hurt, Ouma-kun. Also, it’s called a degree?”.

”It’s called you’re worrying for nothing. Tomayto, tomahto. Point is; he’s fine. You’re just letting anxiety get to you”.

The two were quiet after that. Saihara watched him go to the front to pay for the food. Ouma was probably right as much as he hated to say it. He was being paranoid and nervous about everything that could go wrong. Some extra reassurance was all he needed.  
Saihara left out the part where he suggested his uncle take the case in the first place. He’d never forgive himself if his uncle got hurt on this case.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Saihara turned his head to his bedside table, eyes drifting to the leather diary on it.

The detective sat up and reached for it, running his fingers over the rough leather of the journal before picking it up and putting it on his lap. Why was he so hesitant about this? It wasn’t invading privacy he’d willed it to him . . . But still. Pursing his lips Saihara opened it again, flipping to the first entry.

_’deer top secet plans book_

_haruto and i stol from a store today and we got a bunch of aples 4 the rest of us. it was fun becuse we got to run away from them aftor they saw us!!!! Thats it bye top secret plans book!_

_Oma Kokichi”_

Huh. So he used to steal. It wasn’t much of a surprise knowing him. As he read he could almost here Ouma’s childlike voice, struggling to spell out the words correctly. He went past the other first few pages, eyes drifting across the poorly scribbled crayon words. How young was he when he met Haruto? And how young was he when he wrote this? Saihara blinked as he saw another yellowed page. Longer than the others, and in better handwriting.

_’Dear Top Secret Plans Book 💫’_

_’It’s been awhile since I’ve seen you! It’s still Ouma Kokichi, except I’m thirteen now. I sorta lost this for awhile and I decided why not write in it again? Maybe when I’m all fossilized in the ground somebody a hundred years later is gonna find this and keep it as a relic in a museam (seriously who knows how to spell it?) DICE and I are still together, and we have five new members since I was eight. Can you believe that? We have moved locations a bunch though. Technically we’re still trespassers even though this place is abandoned (I think at least)._  
_Well regardless, laterz~! I gotta go on a shop lifting trip for dinner tonight!_  
_~Ouma Kokichi <3’_

Saihara still felt . . . Empty. Unfulfilled. So in attempt to pour wine into the chalice of his soul, he forced his fingers into motion. He turned the pages again, this time letting his eyes carefully trace over every word. Every. Single. Word. Tears began to sting his eyes again. Brushing past each entry. The little writing habits to the little emoticon faces, it was Ouma. He could barley read it, Ouma ranting about little things that annoyed him or the troublesome illegal situations Saihara would scold him for if he was alive. It was all just there. His heart was in a blender at this point.

Saihara learned he’d run away from and orphanage when he was a kid with his friends, his most trusted friend being Haruto. Growing up they’d moved around a lot, but they ultimately settled down in an abandoned warehouse. Much to his disappointment, the location wasn’t listed.  
His heart caught in his throat.

_’I met a boy named Saihara Shuichi at school today~!’_  
_’He was pretty fun to toy with, he saw through the fourth lie I told him even! Super sharp! I like him already!’_

No. No he didn’t deserve that praise it’d change later.

_’I spent the day with Saihara, he treated me to ice cream and everything! I haven’t had ice cream since forever, but I just told him I ate it everyday!’_  
_’Seriously . . . I’m happy I know him, for once I feel less like a pathological liar, more a playful friend’_

Saihara was drowning in air.

_’I had a sleepover with Detective Dreamy last night!!! He literally had everything! Even a working TV! I almost cried! But that might be a lie, I never cry in front of people’_

Stop it. Stop. I can’t breathe.

_’He listens to me, dissects the lies and looks at the truth for what it is. He knows I care . . .’_

**STOP IT- PLEASE-!**

_’I think that I might love him’_

**HELP-!**

_’If only . . .’_

**GIVE ME AIR! IM GONNA DIE!**

_’He didn’t push me away just as much’_

Saihara collapsed onto the floor gasping for air, coughing up harsh ragged breaths. His arms shook and he let out a low groan as he tried to keep himself upright on his hands and knees. The journal was lost where else in the room. His eyes were sore again. His chest hurt. The young detective crawled to his bedside table and opened the bottom drawer.

To which he pulled out a candle lighter and a box of cigarettes.


End file.
